Chapter Text
The war paint had barely been washed from his hands when Prince Hyunjin found himself seated at the imperial dining table, the familiar weight of ceremony settling around his shoulders like an old cloak. The great hall stretched before them, lit by a thousand candles that cast dancing shadows across the marble columns. At twenty-three, he had grown accustomed to these formal dinners, though he much preferred the simple meals shared around campfires with his soldiers.
Beside him sat his mother, Empress Eunkyung, her presence a steady anchor in the sea of court politics. Her dark hair was woven with pearls tonight, and she wore the deep blue silk that brought out the warmth in her eyes. Across the table, Concubine Aeri sat with her ten-year-old son Yunho, the boy's eyes bright with curiosity as he stared at Hyunjin with barely contained excitement.
"Brother," Yunho piped up, using the informal address that always made the adults shift uncomfortably, "tell me about the war! Did you really fight a hundred men at once?"
Hyunjin smiled, genuinely fond of the child despite the complicated politics that surrounded his existence. "Not quite a hundred, Yunho. But there was this massive hydropower generator—the old wooden kind, as tall as three men—that we had to destroy."
The boy leaned forward, rapt with attention. "Why did you destroy it?"
"We needed to block the enemy's advance and seal the trenches where they were hiding. The generator was perfect for the job—we brought it down and used the debris to create a barrier they couldn't cross." Hyunjin gestured with his hands as he spoke, making the story come alive. "The water rushed in and filled their hiding spots, forcing them to retreat to higher ground where our archers could reach them."
Yunho's eyes sparkled with wonder. "That's so clever! Did you think of it yourself?"
"It was a team effort," Hyunjin replied modestly, though he caught his mother's proud smile from the corner of his eye. "Good strategy comes from listening to your soldiers and understanding the terrain."
Emperor Jaewon cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the warm moment like a blade. His father looked older than his fifty-two years, the stress of ruling having carved deep lines around his eyes. "Would you mind looking over the details I've set out for your welcome ball, Hyunjin?"
The prince set down his wine cup, already feeling the familiar weight of obligation. "That isn't necessary, Your Imperial Majesty."
His father shook his head firmly. "The nobles insist. They want to celebrate your victorious return properly."
From across the table, Hyunjin caught the subtle tightening of Concubine Aeri's jaw. Her beautiful face remained serene, but he had learned to read the micro-expressions that betrayed the thoughts beneath. She didn't like this attention on him, this celebration of his achievements. Why would she? Every cheer for Hyunjin was another step away from the throne for her son.
Hyunjin nodded and stood, offering the proper bow. "I shall do that, Your Imperial Majesty."
Empress Eunkyung rose shortly after, her silk skirts rustling as she approached him. She clasped his arm with familiar affection, walking beside him as they left the dining hall. The moment they were out of earshot, she leaned closer.
"She isn't happy," his mother murmured, referring to Aeri without need for names. "Be careful, or your ball might go sideways."
"I know, Mother," Hyunjin replied with fond exasperation, covering her hand with his own. "Would you mind overseeing the documents by my side?"
Eunkyung huffed, quickening her pace to walk ahead of him toward the study. "I was going to do that regardless of you asking, son."
Hyunjin shook his head as he followed her, watching as she settled herself regally behind his desk—his desk—as if she owned it. She had raised him to be emperor, after all, and sometimes he wondered if she had missed her calling to rule herself.
"Well, Your Royal Highness," she began, clearing her throat with feigned formality, "how had the war been, truly?"
Hyunjin rolled his eyes at his mother's antics, standing to approach the desk and flip over a sand timer that would track their work session. "It was short-lived, really. They had mana on their side—wizards with considerable power—but they fell short in front of our arsenal."
She nodded thoughtfully as she began opening the stack of letters that had accumulated during his absence. "Ah, more marriage proposals." She held up a particularly elaborate envelope sealed with golden wax. "Would you want to look over them? It's around time that you did, you know."
Hyunjin settled into one of the leather chairs across from the desk, his expression growing stubborn. "That rock of a man is not going to perish anytime soon, Mother. You know that as well as I do. He doesn't leave the palace without fifty soldiers and a physician. He gets regular health checks and every possible precaution just to make sure he sees the end of his reign on his own circumstances."
Eunkyung looked up from the letters, her gaze sharp and knowing. "You are his heir. You are twenty-three years old. I'm giving you two more years without my nagging, but after that, I'll take you to the palace astrologer and have him pick you a bride."
"Or groom," Hyunjin grumbled under his breath.
"That," she said with a sigh, "is something you can wish for but never obtain. I'm afraid you weren't born with the privilege to explore such preferences openly."
Hyunjin pouted, slouching in his chair like the young man he still was beneath all the titles and expectations. "I wish things were simpler."
"You have yet to have your first kiss, son. Simpler comes later." His mother's voice held gentle teasing. "I keep telling you to discover yourself, but you insist on maintaining traditional standards. It baffles me sometimes."
When their eyes met, Hyunjin's pout deepened. "I don't want to go to the ball."
Eunkyung paused, her eyebrows rising as an idea clearly struck her. "Let it be a masquerade then. I'll follow through with the usual formal entrance, and you can come through another entrance. It's not as if anyone will recognize you immediately. You'll get an hour to yourself before you have to play prince."
Hyunjin's face brightened, hope flickering in his chest. "Really?"
"Really." She reached across the desk to pinch his cheek affectionately. "Now sit there and look like a painting, or help me make the invitation list."
"Alright, alright," he laughed, pulling the stack of papers toward him. "Let's see what chaos we're about to unleash on the nobility."
Three nights later, the imperial ballroom glittered with the light of a thousand candles and the sparkle of jeweled masks. Hyunjin had chosen a black mask adorned with obsidian gems and a single dark rose at the temple—elegant enough to fit in among the nobility, but common enough that no one would look twice. His dark hair was styled simply, and he wore midnight blue silk instead of his usual princely regalia.
The freedom was intoxicating. He moved through the crowd unrecognized, listening to conversations about himself in the third person, hearing honest opinions instead of the careful flattery usually directed his way. A servant passed with a tray of champagne, and Hyunjin reached for the last flute just as someone bumped into him from behind.
The delicate glass shattered against the marble floor, champagne spattering across his shoes. He caught only a glimpse of his collision partner—a flash of silver mask and blue silk—before they disappeared back into the crowd.
"Your Highness!" A servant rushed forward with a broom and dustpan.
Hyunjin gestured for them to clean up the mess, not bothering to correct the assumption about his identity. He was reaching for another drink when a woman appeared at his elbow, her smile bright beneath an ornate golden mask.
"Your Highness," she said, voice honey-sweet, "would you honor me with a dance?"
"I'm afraid you have me mistaken for someone else," Hyunjin replied politely, but she laughed as if he'd made a joke.
"Of course, how mysterious! But truly, I would love to dance."
He declined as graciously as possible, but everywhere he moved, she seemed to follow. When he tried to study the elaborate flower arrangements, she appeared to compliment them. When he moved toward the balcony for fresh air, she materialized at his side with observations about the night sky. Her persistence was beginning to grate on his nerves.
Just as he was considering abandoning his anonymous evening entirely, a hand closed around his wrist. The touch was firm, calloused in a way that spoke of sword work and hard labor. A woman stepped into his line of sight, significantly taller than his persistent admirer, wearing a black Chinese-style dress that hugged her athletic frame. Fishnet stockings covered what were clearly muscled thighs, and her face was hidden behind an obsidian mask that matched her outfit.
"I think he'll prefer a dance with me, hmm?" Her voice was deep, carrying an intriguing mixture of feminine and masculine tones that made something in Hyunjin's chest flutter with curiosity.
The woman in gold sputtered a protest, but the newcomer's presence commanded attention in a way that brooked no argument.
"May I have this dance?" she asked, then leaned closer to whisper against Hyunjin's ear, "Your Royal Highness, the Crown Prince?"
Hyunjin flinched at being recognized, but nodded quickly. The golden-masked woman stared for a moment before melting back into the crowd with obvious disappointment.
"Good choice," his mysterious savior said with satisfaction.
Following proper etiquette despite the strange circumstances, Hyunjin dropped to one knee and lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles. Her skin was warm, and he could feel the calluses that spoke of weapons training. "May I know your name before we grace this dance, my lady?"
"Lee Minha," she replied smoothly. "I'm the recently appointed Marquess's first daughter."
Hyunjin's mind raced through the prominent Lee families at court—there were at least three with significant political influence, but he couldn't immediately place which Marquess had recently appointed. He filed the question away for later investigation.
Standing, he placed one hand at her waist, noting the firm muscle beneath the silk, and guided her other hand to his shoulder. "Comfortable?"
She nodded. "I've heard His Royal Highness is a beautiful dancer. May this humble subject be privy to such skill?"
Hyunjin scoffed lightly, leading her into the opening steps of a traditional waltz. "You are hardly humble, Lady Minha. But yes, let us dance."
The music swelled around them as they moved across the floor, and Hyunjin found himself genuinely impressed by her skill. She matched his steps perfectly, anticipated his turns, and moved with a grace that spoke of extensive training. More than that, though, was the intensity of her gaze through the mask. Even with her eyes partially hidden, he could feel the weight of her attention, as if she was studying every micro-expression that crossed his face.
"The palace security seems quite thorough tonight," she commented as they spun past a cluster of guards. "I noticed at least three different patrol patterns on my way in."
"The Captain of the Guard takes his duties seriously," Hyunjin replied carefully. "Especially during large gatherings."
"Wise of him. Though I noticed the eastern entrance seemed less monitored than the others. Perhaps that's intentional, to direct traffic flow?"
Her questions were casual, conversational, but something about them made Hyunjin's instincts prickle. Still, he found himself drawn to her confidence, the way she held herself like someone accustomed to command.
"You seem quite observant for a Marquess's daughter," he said, spinning her out and drawing her back in.
"I've always been interested in military strategy. My father says it's unladylike, but..." She shrugged elegantly. "What use is propriety if one can't protect what matters?"
They danced through two more songs, her hand never leaving his, her attention never wavering. When the music finally paused, she didn't step back immediately.
"Your Royal Highness," she said, voice low enough that only he could hear, "would you be interested in retiring to somewhere more... private? I find myself quite taken with your company."
The invitation was clear, and Hyunjin felt heat rise in his cheeks despite himself. "I'm honored by your interest, Lady Minha, but I'm afraid that isn't who I am. You are a gorgeous woman, truly, but forgive me—I cannot engage in anything of that nature."
She nodded, seemingly unsurprised by his refusal. "Then you must allow me to walk you to your wing. It's the least I can do after monopolizing your evening."
Hyunjin's brow furrowed. "Just the wing?" There were hundreds of rooms across two floors in the royal residential area. It seemed an oddly vague destination.
"Just the wing," she confirmed with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
He supposed it was harmless enough. They made their way through the palace corridors, past tapestries depicting the glory of past emperors and windows that looked out onto moonlit gardens. She walked with the confident stride of someone familiar with the layout, though she claimed to be visiting nobility.
When they reached the entrance to the royal wing, she turned to face him. Before he could react, she stepped close and pressed her lips to his neck, just below his ear. The kiss was brief but intimate, sending an unexpected shiver down his spine.
"Zwischen Immer und Nie," she whispered in what sounded like an ancient dialect, her breath warm against his skin. "Between always and never. Let us meet again and never."
Before Hyunjin could process the strange farewell or ask what she meant, she had melted back into the shadows of the corridor, leaving him alone with the lingering scent of jasmine and steel, and the growing certainty that Lee Minha was far more than she had claimed to be.
He made his way back to his chambers with her words echoing in his mind, unaware that in three days' time, those same hands would be the ones to pull assassin's thorns from his mother's lifeless body, and that their next meeting would be in a room far smaller and simpler than any prince had ever known.
Two weeks had passed since the masquerade, and Hyunjin found himself thinking often of the mysterious Lee Minha and her strange farewell. Zwischen Immer und Nie—between always and never. The words haunted him as he stood on his private balcony, violin tucked beneath his chin, drawing melancholy notes from the strings that seemed to capture his restless mood.
The palace had settled into its evening rhythm. Servants moved quietly through distant corridors, guards made their rounds, and somewhere in the eastern wing, his father continued his slow decline while Concubine Aeri whispered poison in his ear about succession and the future of the empire.
Hyunjin closed his eyes, letting the music flow through him as it always did when the weight of crown and expectation grew too heavy. The melody drifted across the moonlit gardens, a lonely sound that seemed to echo his own isolation despite being surrounded by hundreds of people daily.
A chill ran down his spine—not from the night air, but from something far more primal. His battle instincts, honed through years of war, screamed danger. Without breaking the rhythm of his playing, he let his eyes scan the shadows of the balcony, searching for what had triggered his alarm.
There—a flicker of movement behind the marble pillar.
In one fluid motion, Hyunjin set his violin carefully on the stone balustrade and drew his sword, the familiar weight of the blade singing as it cleared its sheath. The assassin emerged from the shadows, dressed in black leather that seemed to absorb the moonlight, twin daggers gleaming in his hands.
"For the rightful heir," the assassin hissed, lunging forward.
Hyunjin parried the first strike, steel ringing against steel as he sidestepped the second dagger. His formal robes restricted his movement, but years of training had taught him to adapt. He spun left, using the assassin's momentum against him, and brought his sword around in a wide arc that forced his attacker back toward the balcony's edge.
The assassin was skilled—trained by someone who knew how to kill efficiently. His strikes were precise, aimed at vital points, and he moved with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to violence. But Hyunjin had survived three wars and countless skirmishes. He read the patterns in his enemy's attacks, found the rhythm, and began to counter.
A feint to the right, then a quick thrust that pierced the assassin's defense. The man's eyes widened in surprise before glazing over, and he crumpled to the marble floor, blood pooling beneath him.
Hyunjin stood over the body, breathing hard, when every instinct he possessed screamed behind you. He began to turn, but he was a heartbeat too slow.
Fire erupted across his back as a blade sliced from his left shoulder blade to his right hip, cutting through silk and flesh with equal ease. The pain was immediate and devastating—like liquid flame poured down his spine, radiating outward until his entire torso felt aflame. He could feel the warmth of his own blood soaking through his shirt, the wet heat spreading across his skin as he stumbled forward.
"The prince bleeds like any other man," the second assassin sneered, pressing his advantage.
Hyunjin gritted his teeth and spun to face his new attacker, sword raised despite the agony that threatened to drive him to his knees. Muscle memory kept him moving even as his vision blurred at the edges. He parried desperately, each impact sending fresh waves of pain through his wounded back.
The blood loss was making him sluggish. His usually precise footwork became clumsy, his strikes losing their deadly accuracy. The assassin drove him back toward the balcony's edge, sensing victory within reach.
Just as Hyunjin's strength began to fail, a figure dropped from somewhere above, landing silently between the prince and his would-be killer. The newcomer moved with lethal efficiency, dispatching the assassin with brutal precision before the man could even cry out.
Hyunjin stared, wide-eyed, as his mysterious savior straightened. But something cold and terrible was already gripping his heart—a knowing that made his blood run colder than his wounds.
"Mother," he whispered, and ran.
The Empress's chambers felt wrong the moment Hyunjin burst through the doors. The air was too still, too cold, carrying the metallic scent of blood beneath the lingering fragrance of jasmine incense. Moonlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating the scene that would haunt his nightmares for years to come.
Empress Eunkyung lay motionless on her silk-covered bed, her dark hair spread across the pillows like spilled ink. But it was the thorns that made Hyunjin's breath catch in his throat—black, glistening thorns that protruded from her jugular, her delicate wrists, and one perfect ear. Each one wept with traces of poison that had already completed its deadly work, turning her lips blue and her skin waxy pale.
"Mother?" His voice cracked like a child's, all his twenty-three years of training and composure crumbling in an instant.
He approached slowly, desperately searching for any sign of life, but her chest remained still. Her eyes, once so warm and full of mischief, stared sightlessly at the ceiling. The woman who had raised him, protected him, loved him unconditionally—gone.
Before grief could fully take hold, that same primal warning system that had saved him on the balcony began screaming again. Hyunjin drew his sword, the movement automatic despite the pain that lanced through his back, and turned toward the source of the new threat.
A woman stepped from the shadows near the window, her face partially hidden but her posture confident, predatory. As Hyunjin watched in horrified fascination, thorns began forming in her palm—the same black, poisonous thorns that had killed his mother.
"Did you do this?" His voice was barely controlled, rage and grief warring in his chest.
She tilted her head, studying him with cold amusement. "Maybe," she drawled, her tone casual as if they were discussing the weather. "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?"
Without warning, she flicked her hand toward him, and the thorns shot through the air like deadly arrows. Hyunjin raised his sword instinctively, deflecting most of them, but his mana arts had always been his weakness. His mother had often said he was of the later generations—those born with diminished magical abilities compared to their ancestors. The thorns that his blade didn't catch embedded themselves in the wall behind him, sizzling against the stone.
They circled each other in the space between the bed and the windows, the assassin conjuring more thorns with each gesture while Hyunjin relied purely on steel and skill. She was fast, her magic giving her range advantage, but his sword work was superior.
The dance of death continued until one thorn slipped past his guard, lodging itself deep in his forearm. The pain was immediate and nauseating—not just from the puncture, but from the poison that began spreading through his system. His hand started to go numb, his grip on his sword weakening.
That's when another figure materialized in the room—smaller in stature than either combatant, moving with deadly purpose. The moment this newcomer's bare hand touched the thorn-wielder's wrist, her skin began to burn and blister. She jerked back with a hiss of pain and surprise.
Hyunjin could only stare as the shorter figure pressed their attack, driving the assassin back. Taking advantage of the distraction, he stumbled toward his mother's body and began pulling the thorns from her still form, desperation overriding caution.
"No, stop! Don't touch those!" The voice was young, male, and absolutely frantic.
Hyunjin turned to see his rescuer—barely more than a boy, really—pinning the thorn-wielder against the wall. She was smiling despite her burns, a cold expression of satisfaction.
"My duty's over," she said, looking directly at the young man who held her. "Fellow wizard."
The words hit Hyunjin like a physical blow. Fellow wizard. This boy was one of them—one of the mages his mother had always warned him about, the ones whose power could reshape kingdoms or destroy them entirely.
Lightheaded from blood loss and the poison spreading through his system, Hyunjin ignored the warnings and continued removing the thorns from his mother's body. Each one came out slick with poison and blood, and he threw them carelessly aside. When the last thorn was removed, he pulled off his silk coat and draped it gently over her still form, as if he could somehow preserve her dignity in death.
Then he broke.
The sobs came from somewhere deep inside him, years of controlled emotion pouring out in a torrent of grief. He hadn't cried since he was twelve years old, but now he wept like a child, pulling his mother's lifeless body against his chest as his wounded back screamed in protest.
She was cold. So terribly, impossibly cold.
Hands tried to pull him away, but he shook his head violently, clinging to her with desperate strength. He felt something sharp prick his palm—probably one of the discarded thorns—but he didn't care. Nothing mattered except this: his mother was gone, and she was the only person who had ever truly seen him, not the crown prince, not the war hero, but simply Hyunjin.
With trembling fingers, he guided her limp hand to his cheek, pressing her palm against his face as if her touch could somehow anchor him to sanity.
"Mother, please," he whispered, knowing it was futile but unable to stop the words from pouring out. "I need to tell you something. Remember when I wrote to you about that strategic meeting during the siege? I lied. I got drunk on too much wine and convinced half the battalion to follow me naked to the bathhouse because I thought the stars looked like battle formations."
He laughed through his tears, a broken sound. "You would have scolded me for being an idiot, then laughed until you cried. Please laugh, Mother. Please..."
His voice dissolved into incoherent sobs as the room spun around him. The hands pulling at him became more insistent, and he felt a sharp prick in his neck—different from the thorns, more deliberate. Darkness began creeping in at the edges of his vision.
"No," he mumbled, fighting the growing lethargy. "I need... I need to stay with her..."
But consciousness was already slipping away, and his last coherent thought was of his mother's voice, singing the lullabies that had chased away his childhood nightmares.
Pain was the first thing that registered when awareness slowly returned. A deep, throbbing ache across his back that pulsed with each heartbeat, accompanied by a sharp burning sensation in his forearm. Hyunjin tried to move and immediately regretted it as his stiff muscles screamed in protest.
The second thing he noticed was that nothing felt familiar.
He was lying on something soft but simple—not the silk sheets and down mattresses of his royal chambers, but rough cotton that smelled of herbs and fresh air. The room around him was impossibly small compared to his sprawling suite in the palace, and everywhere he looked, there was green.
Vines crept up the walls, their leaves creating living wallpaper that rustled softly in the breeze. Potted plants clustered on every available surface—flowering herbs that filled the air with medicinal scents, trailing ivy that cascaded from high shelves, and small trees in ceramic pots that seemed to thrive despite being indoors. Multiple bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes whose titles he couldn't make out from his position, though they looked old enough to crumble at a touch.
A window stood open across from the bed, white linen curtains billowing gently in the morning breeze. Through it, he could see not the manicured gardens of the palace, but wild countryside—rolling hills covered in forest that stretched to the horizon. A fireplace occupied one wall, the embers still glowing weakly from what must have been last night's fire.
Hyunjin sat up slowly, biting back a groan as his wounded back protested the movement. He looked down at himself and found more surprises. Gone were his formal court attire and the blood-soaked shirt from that terrible night. Instead, he wore loose, dark breeches made of soft material that didn't restrict his movement, and a white poet's shirt that hung comfortably on his frame—clothes designed for comfort rather than appearance.
His forearm, where the thorn had lodged, was wrapped in clean bandages. But as he examined the dressing, he realized that more than just the wound had been treated. The flesh around the puncture site looked as though it had been carefully carved away and then stitched back together—someone had removed the poisoned tissue entirely to prevent the toxin from spreading.
The careful, skilled nature of the medical treatment told him one thing clearly: whoever had brought him here knew exactly what they were doing.
He blinked, and suddenly tears were gathering in his eyes again as the memories came flooding back. His mother's cold body, the thorns, the assassin's smile, the strange young man who had rescued him. The grief hit him like a physical blow, and he found himself staring into the distance as the full weight of his loss settled over him once more.
Empress Eunkyung was gone. The woman who had taught him to be a prince, who had protected him from court politics, who had loved him unconditionally—she was dead, and he was alive in this strange green room with no idea where he was or who had saved him.
But as he sat there in the morning light, surrounded by growing things and the scent of healing herbs, one thing became painfully clear: his old life was over.